


A Selfish Request

by StarryNox



Series: Dedue Week 2020 [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dedue's paralogue, Gen, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), but it can stand on its own, can be considered the same continuity as the previous fic in this series, cw: discussion of genocide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22152781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarryNox/pseuds/StarryNox
Summary: Dedue grapples with what it means to quell a rebellion started by his own people.Written for Dedue Week Day 2: Battle / Home
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert & Dedue Molinaro, Dedue Molinaro & My Unit | Byleth, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Dedue Molinaro, Marianne von Edmund & Dedue Molinaro
Series: Dedue Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593397
Kudos: 13





	A Selfish Request

Dedue is not the type of man to pace, yet the longer he stands in the entrance hall of the monastery, awaiting His Highness’s return, the more he thinks he understands why people do. The feeling of waiting, of standing still when there is precious little time to waste, has an itch that he hardly knows what to do with settling in his bones.

If the Archbishop denies his liege’s request, what will he do? His Highness is strong, and Dedue has grown strong enough to withstand his blows in sparring matches and to protect his back on the battlefield, but he is not foolish enough to believe that they stand a chance at intervening. Indeed, he anticipates it will be difficult even with their entire class.

He does not know if he can stomach helplessly watching as his people meet their end at the hands of the Kingdom army for a second time.

“What’s on your mind?” He is not the sort to startle easily, either, but the sound of the professor’s voice shakes him from his thoughts and throws him off-kilter.

“Oh—it’s you, Professor.” It is subtle, but the way they tilt their head slightly tells him that they are concerned for him. He exhales slowly, wondering what he ought to say, but decides in the end to be upfront with them. “I have a favor to ask you.” They raise an eyebrow at him, a silent indication to continue, but as he opens his mouth again he catches the unmistakable clunk of Prince Dimitri’s metal boots against the stairs leading towards the Archbishop’s reception chamber, and turns towards him—in part out of habit, but in part because he simply cannot wait any longer.

It is almost painful, to have to explain the situation to the professor, to speak of the charges against his people and to wait for His Highness to explain what he fears might happen without outside intervention. But at last, Prince Dimitri smiles, if only a little.

“I have just now received the permission I requested from the Church.” _Oh, thank the Gods_. But it does not escape his notice that His Highness does not yet look relieved, and so he remains rooted to the spot when what he _really_ wants to do is begin preparations for the journey immediately. Even so, the question he has desperately been waiting on an answer to escapes him.

“So we may go?”

“Not so fast. We still have a responsibility as students of the academy, after all. The only one who can truly make the decision as to whether or not we go is our professor. So…what do you say?”

To his relief, Professor Byleth agrees without a moment’s hesitation.

The march to Duscur is long and over craggy terrain. If they want to have any chance at intervening, they must move swiftly—on horseback, at least—and for long hours. They all know it will be a grueling journey to save people who mean less than nothing to most of his classmates, but if anyone objects to such a mission, they do not say so. Even Ingrid, whose hatred runs so deep that she would rather risk death than accept his help in battle, looks determined as she saddles her pegasus.

Dedue stares up at the horse that’s been assigned to him with mild trepidation, old nerves crawling back from under his skin. He’s grown accustomed to working with the horses, thanks to Marianne, and he’s even managed to get in the saddle once or twice, with her coaxing. But riding in a slow circle around a paddock and taking off at the brisk pace he’s seen the knights ride at are two entirely different things.

“You’ll be okay,” Marianne says, even reaching out to squeeze his arm. “It’s not that much different, aside from the length of time.” He’s not sure he believes her, but Ashe quickly chimes in with his own agreement, and it’s more difficult than he’d like to admit to refute _both_ of them.

Regardless, time is of the essence, and his people are in danger. He looks up at the horse the professor chose for him, steels his nerves, and swings himself up into the saddle. For what remains of his people, he will endure.

So he says, within the privacy of his own mind, but he is sore within a few hours of riding, and he grimaces once he’s back on the ground. Nearby, Annette grumbles about her own soreness even as she lavishes her mount with treats, and Mercedes already has a hand glowing with white magic to sooth her friend’s complaints.

The professor orders them to tie up their horses and beckons them to a clearing.

“Our goal,” they say, expression stoic as always, “is to minimize fatalities. We can’t fight the Kingdom army—we aren’t authorized to, and it’d be far too dangerous even if we were. So, you have two options—convince your opponent to retreat, or incapacitate them without killing them. Thus far, I have taught you how to kill. Now, you will learn to show mercy.”

Against all odds, they make it in time. Dedue can see the blue banners of the Kingdom’s vanguard, emblazoned with silver lions not unlike the house banner which hangs in their classroom. His stomach churns. The last time he saw such a sight was in Duscur four years ago, when they…

No. He will not allow it to happen again.

“The plan is to quell the uprising ourselves,” Professor Byleth announces, surveying the battlefield. “We’ll need to move quickly if we’re to do it before the Kingdom’s main army arrives. Convince whoever you can to retreat. Failing that, incapacitate them if you can.” They level each of the Blue Lions with a somber gaze. “But if there truly is no way out…do what you must.” Their gaze meets Dedue’s then, and something in their eyes flickers. Regret, perhaps? He bows his head in acknowledgement, and the professor begins assigning them their formations.

Never has the axe in his hands felt so heavy.

“Professor?” That same feeling is in their eyes as they stand in front of him, hesitating, even as his classmates are already moving into position. “Is something wrong?”

“You are certain, that you wish to fight?” _To fight your people_ goes unsaid.

“It is true, that I understand why they are here. In another life, perhaps I would have been amongst their ranks.” He glances towards the blue banners in the distance, an anger as cold as any Duscur winter settling in his gut. “But I believe in His Highness, and I know the strength of the Kingdom army. I will not stand aside as they risk a needless death.” The professor nods once, and directs him to his usual place at Prince Dimitri’s side.

The Duscur rebels are strong, fueled as they are by anger and desperation that flares into rage at the sight of him. Many of them curse him, call him a traitor to Duscur, but he presses on, urging each to live another day—a day when they will, perhaps, realize that he is fighting for them in the only way he can. Let his softened blows and quiet urgings shield them from the brutality that looms beyond the hills. So long as his people escape, he will endure.

At last, they reach the general, positively gleeful as he prepares to face against His Highness.

“We will slay you and topple Faerghus! And then, at last…Duscur can be reborn.” He is the last man standing, outnumbered by the Blue Lions alone, yet his eyes shine with determination.

In the time it has taken them to travel to Duscur, the professor has drilled them on how to knock out an opponent without killing them. Even so, each time the blunt of his axe strikes true, he fears it will do the general in. But at last, the man is forced to his knees, unable to fight against the onslaught of students any longer, and they lay down their arms. His Highness leaves to send the Kingdom army on its way, leaving Dedue to speak with the general alone.

“Don’t be naive,” the man barks. “No prince of Faerghus would offer us a home. We _will_ take it back ourselves.” Dedue thinks of his village, burned to the ground, only bones and rubble against blackened soil, and shakes his head. There is nothing to take back, he thinks, but scarred lands that they cannot hope to rebuild alone.

“Believe what you will. I have chosen my path.” The general scowls even as His Highness returns, urging him to leave alongside his comrades and to stay hidden.

“I hope our paths never cross again,” he says coolly. “But remember this—the people of Duscur never forget their grudges. Nor do they fail to honor favors.”

Dedue watches as the general limps away from the battlefield, a swirl of emotions he cannot quite name stirring in his chest even as relief settles into his bones. The people of Duscur will live another day, even if it is to curse him as a fool who has sold his soul to their enemy. But they will live, and with them the possibility of Duscur rising from the ashes lives, too. And it will—of that, he is certain.

As they set up camp for the evening, the professor watches over him, their gaze a steady presence, like a hand upon his shoulder, and a question all at once. He offers them a nod—he is all right. Their gaze lingers regardless, but he does not mind it. Marianne fusses over the handful of injuries he’d sustained and remains by his side. Ashe prepares a hearty Duscur stew, one Dedue had taught him to make, and hands him a bowl before settling himself so close that their shoulders are pressed up against each other for the rest of the evening. His Highness meets his gaze from across the campfire and smiles.

Duscur is naught but ash, and Faerghus as it stands is more dangerous than a viper’s den. But here, surrounded by the silent support of those who care for him…perhaps this can be a home, too.


End file.
